Growing Up? I guess

Maybe it is just the mood I am in today but I feel like sharing some more of my writing. I am happy about this because I am usually afraid to share it with anyone. So if tomorrow this post is all of a sudden deleted it means that I have had a change of heart. So here are a couple in a few different styles.
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"Questions" - J. Allen 7/2009

This one is a little bit e.e. cummings with the parentheses and grouping. But the subject matter is. . .I don't know exactly what. I guess a lot of what I write is impacted by love. I am very much a romantic but try to pretend like I am tough skinned and unfeeling a lot of the time as well. (Two very conflicting things). Here is number 1 hope it is enjoyable.

“there are days when i long to ask you questions but fear that i will drive you away.”

(a preponderance of questions was almost always bursting from her).

“Questions that maybe you can handle, maybe i am confusing you with people similar to you when i assume you can’t”… You’d motion as if i should go on or you’d open your entire soul to me (in a fully endearing way).

“Well,

they’re questions like ‘Just you and i, would you like that someday?’ or ‘Have you ever noticed that my feet like to slide across red satin oceans and find your feet to have some company in the night’ or ‘What do you think the shape of a child of ours’ nose would be like?’ or ‘What exactly do you see upon my unlined face? What does my eager smile say to you?’ ”


Our time hasn’t come. While at times we are almost unable to see this (due to the amount of blood boiling in front of our eyes) deep down inside our stubborn, inflexible, argumentative beings, we know it.


“ ‘Just you and i, would you like that someday?’

I would.”
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"What Else"- J. Allen 7/ 2009
I wrote this the same night that I wrote the previous poem. The mood is clearly similar. 


we both enjoy
a soft breeze
blowing across
our skin.


beyond that,
what else really matters?
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The last poem I will share is from July of 2007 i never actually gave it a title. 

the surgeon wielded his scalpel with

care- neither slicing the outer walls

,nor leaving residual growth

(he'd been given the task

of cutting away the twist

-ed, dying vines that had be

-en strangling my heart)

finally, as the pounding crimson

muscle of vitality was reveal

-ed, a wave of emotion to my being.

(i wouldn't mind drowning in this feel

-ing, for even as it filled my lungs

,i would only think of how

i could get more of it.)